


The Pope of the Thieves

by magyarok



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family & Law spoilers, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20679041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magyarok/pseuds/magyarok
Summary: “To the Cheery Man.” you toasted in the shadows, long ago. Half a decade later, you find yourself whispering those very same words in a mournful tone.





	The Pope of the Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> a. Fic contains spoilers for **Family & Law** storyline.  
b. Based on old headcanons I had for my PC and his feelings towards the Cheery Man.

The first time you set a foot on London, you were a nobody without a penny to your name, and no longer you had any ties to the Surface - those had been cut off, long ago. It wasn’t long before you put your faith on villainy.

As you began to gain some connections in the underground, a name reached your ears: The Cheery Man. Curiosity got the best of you and soon enough you began questioning your camaradies about this man.

**xxx**

What a fascinating man he is; he was both the head of a criminal empire in the Hill and the landlord of the Medusa’s Head, who would’ve thought? Now that you thought about it, it might have been the first time that you saw the crime lord in person. (If he allowed it so).

The place was everything that you expected from a tavern: rowdy folks arm-wrestling each other on the tables and noisy drunks causing more trouble than they were worth of. Perhaps some of them were among the criminals under the Cheery Man’s hand, but perhaps they weren’t.

A lovely pub he has, that man. Maybe, with enough work, you’d have your own one day, too.

It takes awfully long before you can actually arrange a conversation with the Cheery Man. But eventually he does with a grunt and a ‘_ let’s talk later’_. Satisfied, you take your leave until the next time.

**xxx**

Here and there you heard about a feud, something about a certain copper that you didn’t know quite a lot about. Just who was this person? A rival of his, maybe? A myriad of possibilities, imaginary scenarios and theories soon swarmed your mind, each one more dubious and complex than the last one. Though you asked around the corners of the bars, nobody could give you a clearer answer than vague hints and hushed whispers.

One day, you decide to ask the old man about it. When you arrived, the Cheery Man was carving a pipe with a knife. It seemed as if he had been waiting for a while now.

When you mention the Last Constable, though, his grin twists into grimace, his knife falling on the ground with a loud _ thump _. A part of you wonders if it was asking so bluntly was the correct way to approach it when he pokes your nose with his finger. But then again, there was no other option, wasn’t it?

“She’s trouble, an endless pit of black misery,” he says, more controlled now, and he goes back to his knife and his pipe. 

You only blink once and listen to him. Everything made sense at that moment; she was a Special Constable, you learned, but she had refused to work with the Ministry of Public Decency. Why does she have a vendetta against the Cheery Man, though? It took you a bit to realize he had stopped talking about her, though, as your slowly came back to reality.

“Maybe you can help.”

You raise your head, meeting your eyes with his own.

“I need a fresh face from the Surface. Someone from the outside. I’ll be on touch. Let you prove yourself.”

With that you nod and part ways for the time being, awaiting for the next rendezvous. You’re impatient for it to arrive, if only because the pay would be juicy, until one day a message arrives to your lodgings. Clad in a long coat and a bowler hat, you left your home to the Hill.

**xxx**

That’s how you began working for the old man of Watchmaker’s Hill. You’re no gentleman or lady of high blood, but your movements were as nimble and graceful with the knife as a socialite’s swing of a cricket bat. The job was messy, and very often there’s blood and dirt on your clothes, but work’s work. 

But not everything’s business. The first time that the Blind Bruiser came up to you, extending you an invitation for a drink at Medusa’s Head. A drink? Just that? Talk about a job, maybe? You went to him as quickly as your feet allowed you, and there he was to greet you upstairs.

(A chatty one?)

You could’ve easily taken charge in the conversation but, truth to be told, you weren’t feeling particularly chatty per se, so you allowed him to lead on. The Cheery Man speaks about the Fall of London and how the ground opened, and suddenly you felt more awake - it’s the first time you’ve heard of the Fall in such detail.

It’s hard not to inquire more. When you finally cease to ask for details and poking around the little details, it is late and you bid your farewell to your companion. My, what a pleasant conversation partner is he.

**xxx**

_ ‘Don’t know what I did to deserve a daughter who’d join the coppers’ _. 

The Glim-smuggler you helped. He was her cousin, isn’t he?

It’s not the kind of feud you’d have expected. What’s going on? Did he omit something to you? 

**xxx**

The Cheery Man tells you about many things; his enemies, the important figures of the underworld, the Tomb-Colonies. Listening to his words over a drink has become a rite of sorts in your life, one that you enjoyed perhaps a little too much. 

Only once, when he had too much wine, he confessed that the Last Constable is his daughter, with a small hint of guarded affection in his words. Back then, you couldn’t help it but smile a little. When you went to bed that night, you tried imagining him and his wife (if there was any) and what she must have looked like, and for a small second you wondered if you could’ve been in the wife’s place.

(From that day on, the Cheery Man began creeping into your dreams.)

**xxx**

He wants her gone. He tells you not to be too rough with her. You nod and prepare and promise not to go too far, but not enough as you’d have hoped - she’s no slouch in a fight, oh no, far from it. By the time it’s all done, there’s bruises on both of you. You stop to catch your breath (because bloody hell, does she hit _ hard _), looking at the fresh scars on your hands. Touching them with the tip of your fingers, you notice faint traces of fresh blood still, before your eyes wander off to the Cheery Man.

He’s far from happy. Without realizing it, you took a few steps backwards.

In the following weeks, you don’t dare to mention the Last Constable around him nor ask him where will his men take her to, exactly. For a reason or another you find yourself dwelling far too much into this matter, asking the same questions over and over again to nobody else but your own. Eventually you give up and let it be for the time being.

**xxx**

Those drink-and-chat meetings were the meetings you look forward for the most. It cannot be denied; you enjoy the thief-prince's ramblings enough to forget about business. You still do business together, of course, but you feel like something has changed, even though you cannot tell what exactly.

You could still see him in your dreams; vague figures surrounded you, but you and the crime lord were the only ones in the room. You’re his trusted friend, enough to say you knew him quite well by now, but one’s never sure. 

So very slowly, he began to plague your mind. Sometimes the Last Constable would also appear but you’d never see her quite clearly, others times you’d dream of the office and the Cheery Man offering you a glass of wine so marvellous you couldn’t get enough of it. But there those dreams that were far more riskier, in where your hands would touch his bare chest and his own hands would explore your stomach and you’d feel his warmth. How many lovers has he had, aside from the Constable’s mother? When you woke up, your body would be covered in sweat and it’d be hard to catch your breath. 

They became more frequent as time passed by.

**xxx**

There was one occasion in which you were called for a meeting at the Medusa’s Head - at first the Blind Bruiser had intimidated you just a little, but overtime you’d become accustomed to his voice. So you sat there, greeted and share a drink with the Cheery Man as always, yet you felt different. Vague recollections of your dreams would surface as you looked to him in the eye, war too vivid now. (Should you?)

You look at him at again and notice how he has raised an eyebrow. You smile as you raise your wine as you felt your heartbeats growing faster and faster. (If he allowed you to spend the night here, you’d be so joyful.)

Perhaps the words didn’t flow as smoothly, but you drops various hints here and there, and he catches as quick as you’d have expect. Your curiosity is satisfied when he says ‘but not _ tonight’ _ , and yet those just words gave you a slightly sense of hope at that _ but _.

That’s when you realized the nature of your feelings. Silently you went to bed and thought about it until you fell asleep.

(The more time passed, the more you yearned and hoped for a sign. But you were content enough being one of his most trustworthy allies, so you thought.)

**xxx**

Years pass by, your visits become less and less frequent but you don’t forget about him. There’s not as much business between you two except a few drinks and chats, and yet you can still make out his face almost perfectly. The thief-prince was still in your dreams and you’d felt his lips touching yours, within his bedchamber. Who was he in the dark, away from the public eye? If you had spent the night, that one time, would’ve been rough or gentle? What was he underneath the clothes?

But you woke up, in your nightgown and in your own bed, and a message away for you. You recognize that writing: _ Medusa’s Head. Be there. _

Your heart sank and soon enough you were sprinting across the city and into the Hill.

**xxx**

The carriage moved through London, not as calm and you’d have hoped (but god if your aim with a firearm hadn’t improved since the last time), but in those times were the pursuit would calm down, you got the chance to ask him about his wife. Today is her anniversary, isn’t it?

When you ask, he bristles and scowls, but he then shakes his head and begins to tell you more about her. About the business that she held down before him. About keeping their child in school. As he said, she was his rock. How lovely, she must have been quite a fortunate woman.

He paused. “Look sharp. We’re pursued.”

You nod and pick up the gun, but deep in your heart you wonder if one day, maybe, you’ll be able to fulfill her place. Just maybe. The carriage stops and he informs you that you’ve arrived, which is enough to almost make you jump from your seat and assist him to descend.

Her tomb was a curious one, filled with sunlight and guarded by a golden door. You catch a glimpse of a fond smile on his face as he stared down and you felt your heart skipping a beat. My lord if his smile was charming, and selfishly you wished that he had been smiling at you. Agatha was lucky, indeed.

The Cheery Man doesn’t fail to notice the withering lilies in the grave, though. The Last Constable arrived before.

**xxx**

He tells you about a lethal game that they used to play, long ago. You talked to his daughter to join in and you sneaked around to find the Castinger’s venom, always with this gut feeling that it’d be wrong. The venom was lethal, and for a second you wondered what if he was the one that drank the wrong tankard. 

You felt heartache, but continued with your work; you promised him so. (You wouldn’t be able to bear it, but still you had to.)

But you cannot help it, when you help him to ready out, he asks what the bloody hell have you stuck for this long and for a moment you freeze. You hesitate a little before you give you an answer: _ love _. (Because you’d no longer deny it.)

His gaze drops. You await for a reply, anything, even a _ ‘bloody hell, no’ _ would suffice. He doesn’t look at you but when he talks about a certain time, your eyes perk up before he trails off, and you don’t miss the fact that he had a nervous smile in his face. For a moment you forget the whole game and feel like an impatient puppy, but not even looking at you he says that it isn’t the time. 

But you had hopes, if he survived. You could’ve cheated but you gave him your word. You don’t betray your friends. And so, the game began.

**xxx**

It felt as if you body had frozen when you saw him convulse and foam falls from his lips. You want to look away but you cannot, the convulsions don’t stop and you want to desperately intervene and do something, but your feet betray you. The Cheery Man belches again and again without a pause, and then drops into the table.

The Last Constable sat there, seeing everything without flinching. And here you are, too shocked to properly react - cry out, move, anything at all. When it’s all done for, she stood up to close his eyelids.

“Neither of us was going to have a happy ending. Sorry you lost him,” she tells you with a weak smile. Soon you leave, swiftly and ignorant of the unhappy glances at your direction, never ceasing your pace until you’re away from the Medusa’s Head and the Hill. Tears don’t form from your eyes but your body feels too numb for doing so as memories from the Cheery Man floated through your mind.

The next day, a funeral is held, a service you’re not invited of. It’s when the news reach your ears that you finally let yourself mourn, hot tears falling down your cheeks.

**xxx**

Tonight, years later, you light up a mourning candle; it’s his anniversary. The candlelight barely illuminated the room. Your chest hurts too much, more than you’d admit to anyone else. You haven’t seen the Last Constable again, and perhaps it was for the better if you didn’t.

There won’t be another Cheery Man. He lives on your heart. A true friend, in the end.


End file.
